Shallow Imitations

chapter thirty-nine

It hasn't happened in weeks.

I usually get this need, an ache, to read one of his books and go through his things. Sometimes I would spend hours just looking through his notes and things that he wrote down, books that he'll never get to finish. I remember wanting to give him privacy at first, but this has long ended. I can't decide if I'm angry at him or myself.

I go through his notebooks and the blog again today, one after another, trying to form some kind of hypothesis as to what could've happened. The blog is a good place to start, I decide. Kal has infected me. Suddenly, I'm a detective myself, analyzing every word he says. Somehow, I think, I'll find out what happened. Maybe he left subtle hints for me to see in case something like this happened.

Eleonora stops around the apartment every now and then, more often than before. She's lying on the bed, staring at me. "How is reading Atlas's seventeen-paged review of The Wrath and the Dawn gonna help things?"

"I just need one hint," I say, reading through lines frantically. "There's got to be a reason why he would do something like this."

A hand comes out of nowhere, shutting my laptop with a loud thud. "You need to stop moping," she said, her arms crossed. "And stop reading these reviews! They suck anyway."

"You've never read them."

"Yeah, because they're pretentious. He's pretentious."

I look at her, shocked. "I thought you liked him."

Eleonora rolls her eyes, leaning against the desk. "I didn't like him, Luna. Maybe you don't remember, but we've talked about this before. You met Atlas just a few months after Mom and Dad died. You held on to the first person who gave you attention," she says, the looks away, whispering as if she's talking to herself. "I don't know how you never saw this. You guys didn't even argue. You just go with whatever he tells you, let him fill your head with all his crap."

"What are you talking about? Mom and Dad have nothing to do with this."

She shakes her head in that way she always does, as if she saying, 'Oh, Luna'.

She sits up suddenly, as if determined to get her point across. "Remember when you said you wanted to live in New York, that you would be a better writer there? You told me you wanted to visit Paris! What happened to all these plans?"

"We were planning on it!"

"You never did! You had the money, but you never went anywhere because Atlas kept delaying it!"

My lips part, shocked. "We kept delaying it together because the time was never right. Besides, what reason would he have to do that?"

"To keep you here? So that you don't get published and get ahead of him. You were always a better writer. It came more naturally to you."

I look away, not believing the words coming out of her mouth.

"Remember all those rejection letters he got," she says. "He's the reason you never sent your work anywhere."

It's true. He tried writing a book of his own in high school, thinking that his skills as a reviewer would help, but they all thought his writing didn't have any emotion. Atlas stopped sending letters a long time ago. He confessed to me once that he sent tens of letters in high school and then more after I convinced him. All he got back was rejection. 'Your work is too dark' or 'You need some time to mature'. When I decided it was time, Atlas told me that I should have something more concrete first, that I should develop better ideas and work on my book more. But he did that because he cared about me and didn't want me to give up after getting criticized.